A notebook bulletin board
tacked on when randomly bored
applied thoughts in a scribblebook
open for the world to look who passes by
so fast to see like a needle in a haystack we
safely stash those innermost secrets thought to be
at least you see languishing up and into pristine
blossoms for you to pick and sniff and hope
they don't make you sick.

3/9/22

Acoustic Interiors

 
     
digital art mashup by s. lawton & c. carter       


  Our focus as individual human beings seems keyed to differentiating wavelengths or frequencies generated from our own biological OS. It seems to be a matter of the ratio of our perception, from exterior toward interior reflection. We know many people are born on the spectrum.  

   I am near-sighted, and have worn corrective lenses since the age of fifteen. This near-sightedness seems related to my mental acuity and perspective; a reflection of it. I have always had difficulty as a creative writer in the "nuts and bolts" aspect of plot construction and, to an extent, characterization.  

   It seems to me that I am attuned to the "inward" world that silently shuttles beneath the surface skin of things. The more I focus, the deeper into this hidden landscape I manage to see. Distances become blurry. I'm all about focusing in on the microscopic elements of our evolving world.  

   I once considered that I don't use words to write about things; rather, words use me to express themselves. As if I'm a conduit in an eternal line of codified programming embedded within our dna. The more I write, the deeper within the interior I go. Almost as if I'm bent on breaking a code. 

   I've glimpsed hidden clues winking in the mica chips protruding from the surface of things. I've noticed recurring patterns out of the corner of my mind's eye. I'm compelled to write these developing notions down. As if this line of thought were an umbilical connection to the cosmos. 

   As if the universe has been compelling me to get these concepts out there for others to latch onto, despite the fact I write my creative visions for no audience but myself. As if I may or may not be the only one in existence, or at least one of the very few, with a focus on the interior world. 

   Depending on whether I'm to be preaching to the choir, if I'm not the only one, or necessarily attempting to toss a lifeline to any in the crowd at risk of being drowned whose ordinarily exteriorized mode of thinking could benefit from these insights. As if my own lonesome subset needs to grow like any other plant or life form.